Dinner was interesting tonight. To tell you the truth, every meal has been interesting since our 19-month-old learned the word “fork.” Like many 19-month-olds, her pronunciation could use a couple more years of work. She’s not so good at her “R’s” and she sometimes gets lazy with her “O’s” so that they sound a little more like “Uhh’s.” If you’re not following what I’m saying, well that’s too bad because I’m certainly not going to spell it out. This blog is G-rated. Sometimes PG.
The other characteristic that seems to come standard in my children is a propensity to yell words over and over until somebody repeats them. She played a game tonight that tied these two quirks together called: “Drop the fork in my lap and loudly repeat my own version of the word “fork” until Daddy finds the fork and tries to end the noisy charade. Repeat.”
Her 5-year-old sister, who loves a game, and is always a good sport when it comes to big-sister stuff, quickly joined in the loud recitation of the baby’s version of the word, never having heard that version and not knowing that if it’s repeated too many times, you’re smack-dab in the middle of an R-rated movie.
Not wanting to make a big deal out of the word, my husband and I just stared at our plates, occasionally making eye contact long enough to share a silent giggle. (We never claimed to be mature.) We tried in vain to change the subject as the F-bomb volleyed back and forth across the table, our children completely unaware that they were making us look like the Osbourne family.
When the game got old, and the dinner conversation became more child-appropriate, I said to my husband, “At least she’s not telling anybody to ‘sit.’”